


Inked Skin and Immured Hearts

by youaregolden



Category: Harry Styles - Fandom, Larry Stylinson - Fandom, Louis Tomlinson - Fandom, One Direction
Genre: Adventures, Angst, Bottom Harry, BoyxBoy, Closeted Gay, F/M, Flower Harry, Fluff, Larry Stylinson Is Real, M/M, NSFW, Porn, Punk Louis, Smut, cute shit, dom!Louis, harrie - Freeform, larry stylinson - Freeform, larrystylinson, sub!Harry, top!Louis, upperclass harry, uptown harry, westside louis
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-25
Updated: 2017-07-25
Packaged: 2018-12-06 18:03:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11606010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youaregolden/pseuds/youaregolden
Summary: You wear your heart on your sleeve; bare and reachable for anybody to take and break. Your past is tough as leather, walls built up around you with stone. Your heart is lost in the sky, somewhere nobody can ever find it, though the pain in your eyes is as clear to me as glass. //You're new and dangerous; treacherous as mountains. Your skin is inked with the art, allowing me to read you like a book. Mysterious and dark you are; intriguing me to no extent and I only dream that someone like you could love someone like me.Or the one where Harry is an upper-class rich kid with a crappy dad and a deceased mother. He's a perfectionist because of how she raised him, and he attends a school for the rich. Louis is a west side style lad with rough edges, attending one of the high schools for the less fortunate. Harry ends up getting into something he never intended to, causing him to be forced to switch schools, furthermore landing him in the high school down in the west end where the greaseballs and gangsters like to crawl. And Louis. Upper-class and the lower-class generally don't mix.





	Inked Skin and Immured Hearts

Harry Styles was born February 1st, 1994. With a handsome name fit for a prince, he was a sweet boy born into a family of riches; one of the most posh families in the East side of his hometown. His mother, Anne Cox, was an absolute perfectionist with an obsession for having everything just the way she wanted. She would nag her son constantly, telling him what to do left and right. He was an only child to his knowledge, so naturally, he was her ideal target. On the other hand, his father Robin never had time to even lay an eye on Harry. Constantly finding himself caught up in his work, whether it be drowning in stacks of papers or typing horrendously long articles and essays on his laptop, he rarely even made it to dinner.

“But dad!” Harry once whined. It was almost seven at night on a Friday, and he was only at the age of six. Robin peered up from his desk in the middle of the workroom, giving his boy a stone-cold gaze. “We’re having your favourite for dinner!” Harry insisted his father take a break to join he and his mother for supper, but Robin waved a hand in the air in dismissal, shrugging it off and expecting his son to leave the room. 

“Harry, how many times do I have to tell you? I’m busy. I’ve lots of work to do. Now, get out of my office and go eat your damn dinner. Don’t forget to do the dishes after for your mother.” Robins face was distorted in a faint scowl, his voice gruff and aggravated as he returned his gaze to the dozens of papers sprawled across the desk in front of him. Harry merely sulked, turning away and dragging himself out of the office with a sulky pout on his lips. He didn’t forget to close the door behind him.

Robin was always in his office, day in and day out. Harry only ever saw him outside of the damn prison-like office once every day or two- sometimes twice, if he was lucky. Anne was always around, though. With her crisp white apron wrapped suffocatingly tight around her petite waist at all times, hair always tied back in tight buns and pony tails, her voice was always raised to a high octave. She wanted everything in tip-top shape, from the house to Harry himself. 

“Harry Edward Styles!” Anne would screech. “Clean the goddamn cat litter! Jesus H. Christ!” Then she would stomp her food, or place one hand on her hip while the other pointed at the litterbox. Harry, only a young boy around the age of 8 or 9, would frown because he just cleaned it a few hours ago. He safely assumed that Dusty, their skinny grey cat, had made another dirt.

“Oh, my god, clean these fucking dishes!” Anne would yell, voice strained and eyebrows furrowed angrily as she would stare at the sink. Usually, once Harry reached the kitchen to fulfill his mothers wishes (and to avoid being punished for not being there quick enough), there would only be a glass and a spoon from his father probably making another cup of coffee or tea. 

“Harold! Your goddamn filthy shoes do not belong on the shoe rack! That’s for guests, and you should fucking know that by now! Put them in the closet where nobody can see them!” Anne would whip her dish towel in the air in anger, eyeing her son’s pair of shoes; usually converse or boots. The small boy would proceed to carefully pick them up, giving them a quick inspection  
and then moving to put them in the closet. He would nudge them between his father’s big, chunky work boots and his mum’s Prada, hiding them from sight. They were rarely ever dirty.

“Stop running in the fucking halls, Harry!” He would always flinch whenever his mother swore, and he knew that it was a tell-tale sign he’d have done something to make his mum extra angry this time. It wasn’t his fault that he was running to the loo, just about ready to piss himself.

“HARRY STYLES! Your room is a damn pigsty! A Styles doesn’t leave his sweatshirt on the floor, nor does he leave his germ-ridden bookbag on his bed!” Anne would scold her son again, and Harry would let a soft sigh emit from his lips as he scooped his sweater up, hanging it behind the door or in his closet. Then he’d pick up his bag and tuck it away in the closet, or somewhere out of sight. 

Life was always tough for Harry, regardless the copious amounts of money to he and his family name. There was always a reason for Anne to be scolding her son, even for the simplest things. Whenever she would be too harsh on the boy (which was often, and it got worse as he aged), he would cry. Hot tears covering his soft pale cheeks, little hands shaking. Then she would grab him by the ear, drag him up to his bedroom, and punish him. It was normally a timeout, but as he grew older and things progressed with time, these simple punishments turned into spankings. 

One day, Harry broke down into an ugly sob when he accidentally tripped over his own two feet, falling to the wooden floor in the hallway and breaking his fathers favourite mug. This was the day he was beaten for the first then. After such a traumatizing incident, Harry never cried in front of anyone, and he never spoke unless spoken to; especially to his father, who was the one who’d hit him.

\-----

Harry was seventeen years old now, living with his father in the same plentiful mansion he was raised in, the nightmare of his mother’s death haunting him still. Harry always blamed himself. She would still be here if he hadn’t bothered calling Anne while she was gone out late that night. He was just ten years old at the time, and even though his mum was always mean to him, Harry loved her no matter what. She was his mum, and he’d always love her regardless. He remembers it vividly; calling her at one in morning, on the verge of tears because his mum was still gone. She had left a bit before dinner that day, and had not come back yet.

“M-Mum?” Harry blubbered messily into the phone, wiping snot from his nose with his sleeve as he huddled against the pillows in his bed. “Are you coming home soon?” He was breathing heavily into the phone, curtains drawn shut and lights out. He had his blankie of Winnie the Pooh snuggled up against his chest, knees brought up to his chest as well. It was in the middle of winter, snow falling heavily outside.

 

“Harold, why are you still up? It’s past midnight!” Anne scolded through the phone, the faint sound of a rumbling car engine in the background, proving she was driving. He opened his mouth to speak, but his mum cut him off. “I’m on my way home now, Harry. What is it?” 

“I-... I miss you mum. ‘M worried about you.” He croaked, throat burning. Anne was silent for a moment, guilt nudging at her because she felt bad for leaving so long without any word. It wasn’t like her.

“Alright, alright. Harry, calm down. I’m almost home, okay?” Anne’s voice was lowered, almost soft as she murmured to a sniffling Harry. He curled his fingers into the cloth of his comforter, nibbling at his lip. “Okay, mum.” He whispered.

“Well then. Alright, bye Harry. I love y-” Anne wasn’t able to finish her sentence. The phone thumping and the sound of screeching tires hurting Harry’s sensitive ears. His eyes widened, gripping the phone tighter until his knuckles turned white.

“Mum? Mum! MUM!” He was a mess, screaming into the phone and going into hysterics whilst flying from his bed and running to his bedroom door. Swinging it open with a bang, he sobbed while thumping down the hall and down the staircase. “Dad!!” He screamed, still pressing the phone tightly to his ear. 

“Mum. I- I love you too.” He croaked, and the line was dead. 

\----

Harry had told his father about what happened. Robin picked his son up, carrying him out to the care while dialing the police. It was discovered that Anne’s car slid on some back ice on the road: ice so thin, and slippery, that the car went flying and smashed into an oncoming vehicle. She died from terrible head injuries, but even if she did survive, she wouldn’t remember a thing.

On the day of the funeral, Harry cried the entire time. He stood by the coffin, a closed-casket service because of the ugly injuries that tarnished Anne’s body, so they weren’t able to doll her up for an open casket. It was the only day Robin was relatively quiet and calm around Harry, other than the one time on their way home when Robin grabbed Harry by the wrist and told him, “Your mother would tell you to stop crying.” His fathers grip made him squirm.

Harry was reserved after this, all the way until high school. He attended an expensive school. It was high quality. In fact, it was the most stereotypically posh school in the East end where all the snobs went. Every once in awhile he would raise his hand and answer a question in class, but other than that, all the teachers knew better than to center the small boy out. He almost always refused to speak, keeping to himself and staying quiet. 

He was shy and quiet. And my god, he was handsome. Many of the girls thought he was adorable; gorgeous chocolate curls that were trimmed short, green doe eyes, milky soft skin with a pale complexion, and a natural pink hue to his cheeks. 

They all adored him and called him a little flower because he was so cute and dainty. Nobody knew this, and they’d be disappointed if they did, but Harry was absolutely gay. Nobody but his diary knew his little big secret, and honestly, he wasn’t planning on telling anybody else any time soon. 

Robin was still a workaholic. He still ignored his son for the most part, too, always working in his office. Harry didn’t even know what the hell kind of work Robin did, but it must be hard because it was so damn time-consuming. 

Ever since his mums death, Harry was studious and clean. He always kept the kitty litter clean and dishes always done. Dusty had passed away, and of course, this devastated him and he spent a month crying and eating ice cream, but he had recently gotten a new kitten. Molly was also gray, but she was darker and chubbier and much sweeter than Dusty ever was. Harry had Dusty buried in the backyard, in the flower garden.

Harry had started that little garden himself, planting only the flowers that he wanted and making sure they were always healthy. He hated to see living things in struggle or pain, so he made sure to transport all the little flowers into pots for the winter, then put them around the house for decoration. 

Harry always made sure to keep his shoes hidden in the closet, that way nobody would have to look at them. Even though he always kept them clean and there never was any company other than his best friend Liam that would see. 

He always did the dishes, never ran in the halls, and made sure his bedroom was constantly clean. He wanted to keep mum pleased at all times. 

Harry's house was a mansion, right in the heart of the posh side of London. It was made entirely of brick and glass. One of his walls in his bedroom was entirely a window, with huge cream-white curtains that he could pull across. If he ever wanted full privacy, he could pull the dark brown curtains across that he kept neatly tucked up in the corners of the room. 

Harry wasn't bullied, but he wasn't exactly popular either. He had one friend, Liam, who always there for him. Liam wasn't as rich as Harry but still lived in a beautiful mansion just down the road. 

\-----

“Harry, calm down. I guarantee you’ll find love one day!” Liam laughed. He was hanging out with Harry in his room. Haz stood at the big window that took up the entirety of one wall, peering outside. Considering he was on the third and top floor of his house, he had a perfect view of things from over the tall wooden fence around his property. 

Harry never exactly came out to Liam as gay. Liam figured it out on his own since it was easy to look at his dainty little twink of a best friend and come to the conclusion that he liked dick up his ass. 

“What makes you say that?” Harry whispered, gently biting his tongue as he fiddled with the hem of his shirt. Liam snorted, eyes rolling sarcastically as he laid back on Harry’s bed.

“Because you’re you, Harry.” Liam smiled over at his best friend whose back faced him. Liam wasn’t gay, he’s as straight as a ruler really, but he sure can appreciate a good man when he finds one, and Harry was greater than good.

“And…?” Harry leaned his forehead against the cold glass of the window, urging Liam to go on.

“Mmh, well, my dear Hazza. You’re you. Kind, sweet and lovely. You’re wonderful really. So handsome.” Li winked when Harry peered over his shoulder to look at Liam with a bewildered look on his face, eyebrow cocked and cheeks reddened with a blush. 

“You’re my best friend! Are you hitting on me?” Harry giggled, only teasing, and Liam nodded.

“Yep. Because my girlfriend no longer means anything to me and I’m suddenly gay and falling for my best mate.” Liam purred, wiggling his eyebrows as he watched a giggling Harry turn his head to look back out the window. Their laughter gradually died out, until the room was filled with silence. Harry inhaled.

“Do you think that m’dad would accept me?” Harry whispered. His voice was gentle, barely audible. 

“Hm? What was that?” Liam asked, sitting up on the bed. Harry turned away from the window with another soft sigh, letting the white curtains fall closed and into their place. He walked over to the chair at the little desk in the corner of his room, leaning back and closing his eyes whilst nervously nibbling on his bottom lip.

“I said, do you think my dad would accept me?” He repeated himself, folding his hands in his lap. Liam was nervously fiddling with his thumbs.  
“There’s no way to tell, Haz.”


End file.
